


We Wait Up All Night

by inlovewithnight



Series: Midnight Crawl [1]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Dubious Consent, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Prostitution, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete needs cash. He finds an offer he isn't inclined to refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Wait Up All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of 3 in this series.
> 
> Written for the "sex work" square at kink_bingo.

Pete stared at his bank account summary. The summary stared back. Neither of them blinked. The numbers didn't budge.

"This is bad," he said.

The numbers didn't answer.

Pete sighed and closed the tab. Well. So much for paying his rent this month without getting creative. So much for the grad students' association's assurance that a person could live on their stipend.

He pulled up Craigslist and looked for ads to sell plasma. Had to start somewhere.

**

Plasma wasn't going to do shit, he figured out pretty fast. More creativity required.

Desperate times and rent being due meant it was time to drop any pretense of pride. Pride was bullshit, except for the variety that kept him from calling his parents for help. That kind was unbendable.

He clicked through Craigslist again, eyes sliding vacantly over the listings. Nothing there. He knew that already.

He sighed and clicked over to another tab, his personal little mental vacation place. The Chicagounderworld.net forums.

The site was pretentious and st least half of the people posting there were poseurs, but the "secret confessions" stories, fake or not, were hot as hell, and if he was never going to have the time or energy to go looking for kinky sex for real, at least he could fantasize and jerk off a lot.

Tonight he clicked restlessly through confessions, through newbies, through a really stupid debate about gear, and ended up in m seeking m. Or, as he liked to call it, the Pete torturing himself party room.

He scrolled down the page without bothering to open anything, then stopped, his mouse hovering over a listing that said "Special guest wanted."

"The fuck?" Pete mumbled, and opened the post.

_I'm having a party. Small, personal. Intimate. I'd like a special guest or two to make my guests feel at home. Look at the site you're on. Figure it out._

_Transportation costs covered generously. Clothing/hair stipend, also generous. I'm talking four figures generous. Figure it out._

Pete stared at the screen, his eyebrows up around his hairline. Wow. Least subtle prostitution ad ever. That had to be over the line of the site's rules.

But it was still up. Still open with email contact listed. And four figures.

Shit.

Pete shot off an email and went directly to bed. His life. Fucking weird all over.

**

There was a reply in his inbox the next morning. He stared at it like a zombie for half an hour before opening it.

_you're the lucky winner,_ it said. _Come by my place for the details and NDA. Don't make it weird_ and an address.

This wasn't really how Pete thought this was going to go. Not that he'd thought about it in depth at all, but... not this.

_What time?_ he wrote back.

The response was weirdly immediate. _Whenever. I'm doing nothing._

Pete frowned and typed against his own better judgement. _Don't you want a picture or something?_

_Oh! Yeah, totally._

Pete was better at this than the guy hiring him. That probably meant something.

He took off his jeans, pulled his dick halfway out of his briefs, and shot an awkward picture with his webcam. _enjoy,_ he typed, and sent it.

It took a few minutes for the reply to come in, time he spent getting his pants back on and going through his collection of t-shirts, wondering which one most accurately said "sex kitten." Answer: none of them, because they literally said the names and logos of hardcore bands.

He was back to being bad at this.

But still better than the guy paying him, it turned out, because the message in his inbox said, _wow you are mad hot. Way hotter than I expected. Do you want a bonus for being hot?_

Pete thought that he might pay his rent for ages off this guy.

**

It took him almost two hours to get to the guy's house, what with the bus schedule and walking and getting turned around and then feeling super-weird about what an upscale neighborhood he was in. No wonder this guy could afford to drop money on weird quasi-prostitution. He was obviously loaded. He lived in a building that had a declarative noun for a name. The Whitefields. What the fuck.

He hit the buttons on the call box and waited. After a longer pause than he expected, a thick voice came from the speaker. "What?"

"It's... it's Pete. The guy from the Internet."

There was another pause, and a muttered, "Shit, you really came. Shit. Uh." He cleared his throat and his voice got louder. "Come on up."

Pete figured he could bolt at any time up to when he knocked on the apartment door, but by this point he didn't want to. He wanted to see this guy. Talk to him. Figure him out, if that was possible. Whatever he had going on, he was a mystery wrapped in an enigma stuck inside a riddle, with weirdsauce. So Pete didn't bolt; he knocked.

And then when the guy opened the door, it turned out he was hot, too. And _tall_.

"Hi," he said, staring wide-eyed at Pete. "Come on in."

Pete walked past him and glanced around the apartment, shoving his hands in his pockets. It was as pricey inside as on the outside. Everything was shiny and polished and really, really clean.

"How many times a week does your cleaning service come in?" he asked. There were visible vacuum-cleaner tracks in the carpet and, he suspected, on the throw pillows. Which. Wow.

"Twice," the guy said from right behind him. Pete whirled around and took the hand he was offering. "I'm Gabe."

"Pete."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too." Pete reclaimed his hand and put it back in his pocket. "So, you said something about an NDA, and a check."

"Right. Right. Totally." Gabe kept staring at him. "You want to sit down first? Have a drink?"

"This doesn't end with me being chained to a wall, does it? Because, like. Dude. I was really counting on you not being a serial killer or a cannibal or something."

"I'm not a serial killer. And I'm _vegan_." Gabe frowned. "I'm just a dude who likes kinky sex and is bad at getting dates."

"For your own parties?" Gabe blinked and it was Pete's turn to frown. "Your ad was for someone to, uh, perform at your party."

"Oh! Oh, right. Right. I think I was pretty bombed when I wrote that ad." Gabe blinked again. "Wait, do you _want_ to perform at my party?"

Pete sighed. "I wouldn't have answered the ad if I... you know what, I think I do need a drink. Something in a sealed bottle or can, please."

"I'm not a _creep_ ," Gabe muttered, but he went into the kitchen and came back with a Diet Coke.

Pete took a long drink, stalling for time to get his thoughts in order. "You'll pay me what was in the ad? Plus the bonus you promised for me being hot? I'm flattered, by the way."

"Whatever I said, plus a bonus," Gabe said, without even hesitating. "Yes."

"Okay." Pete took another drink. "Then I guess we should show each other what we're bringing to the table."

The confused look on Gabe's face as Pete put his can down and tugged his t-shirt off over his head was pretty great, but Pete was vain enough to admit that he liked it even better when that look faded into one of general appreciation when Pete started undoing his jeans.

"You work out?" Gabe asked.

Pete stepped out of his jeans and pushed his briefs down. "Couple times a week. Not hardcore."

"I like it." Gabe stepped closer, reaching one hand out to trail over Pete's shoulder. Pete watched him from the corner of his eye, waiting for this to play out. Was it going to stay awkward and weird and decidedly unsexy, or did this guy have something under the surface?

Please, please let him have something under the surface. And under his pants. Please.

Gabe touched Pete's neck, then his jaw, then set two fingers under Pete's chin and lifted it until they were looking each other in the eyes. "Definitely a hotness bonus," Gabe said quietly. "Maybe a double hotness bonus."

"I'm double-flattered."

"What are your limits?"

He sounded serious, intense; no more awkwardness. Pete felt his pulse start to jump, and his dick twitched a little, waking up for the party. "No blood. No bodily fluids besides the obvious. No gags or being tied up at this stage of the game. And I'm done performing before anybody gets really drunk. Like. More than tipsy, I'm done."

Gabe raised his eyebrows. "You've done this before?"

"What? No." Pete felt heat rising in his face. "I've been thinking about it since I read your ad."

"Oh." Gabe licked his lips. "Huh."

Pete opened his mouth to say something else, but he lost track of it, because Gabe was sliding his hand down Pete's chest, then over his belly, slowly and deliberately. His hand was really big. And really warm. And... distracting. Really distracting. Especially when he got to Pete's dick and turned his hand so the knuckles brushed over the hot, suddenly too-sensitive skin.

"Is that cool?" Gabe asked in a low voice. Pete jerked his chin higher and nodded. "Cool," Gabe repeated, and moved his hand again, teasing his fingers over Pete's balls.

For a minute Pete had a flash of distance and clarity, that he was standing in the apartment of a very rich total stranger while that stranger served him Diet Coke and fondled him, as a prelude to putting a kinky party contract down on paper. This was weird. This was super-fucking-weird.

Then Gabe squeezed his balls a little, and Pete forgot all about that. 

"Hold still," Gabe said, just in a regular voice, not like he was giving an order at all, but Pete did as he was told. He planted his weight on his heels and clenched his fists at his sides, making himself keep perfectly still while Gabe felt him up. 

"Fuck, you're hot," Gabe muttered, wrapping his hand around Pete's shaft and stroking slowly. "And your dick is, like, perfect. Gorgeous."

Pete took a shaky breath and rocked forward and back in place.

"Don't move." It was the mildest reprimand in the world, but Pete still froze again, trying to find a quiet place in his head where he could wait all day.

"I _really_ like your dick," Gabe said. "And your stomach. I'm gonna, like. At some point, I want to leave marks on your stomach. And your thighs. All over you, I think. Is that cool?"

Pete nodded stiffly, and Gabe smacked the base of his dick. "Don't _move_."

"Fuck," Pete gasped. "Sorry."

"Is that plan cool?"

"Yes. Yes, it's cool."

"Cool." Gabe took him in hand again and stroked tighter, faster. "You should go ahead and come when you're ready."

It took Pete a few more minutes to get there, but when he did, he stepped forward out of where he was supposed to be and came all over Gabe's hand. He braced himself for a punishment while he caught his breath, but Gabe just brought his hand up to his mouth and licked it clean, watching Pete thoughtfully.

"So yeah, I have a hard time getting dates," Gabe said finally. "But even though this is totally unorthodox, I think I'm into it."

"Yeah," Pete said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and trying not to stare at _Gabe's_ mouth, at the little spot of jizz at the corner of it. Jesus fuck. "Me too."

"You want to sign the paperwork and I'll write you your check?"

Pete's stomach flip-flopped and he nodded again, leaning down to grab his underwear. "Sure. When, uh, when will you want to see me again?"

"The party's Saturday night."

"What time should I be here? Do I need to get waxed or anything?"

"Be here at six. And I like you just how you are." Gabe uncapped a pen and handed it to him, then slid a small stack of papers across the table. "Sign and initial at the X's."

Pete stared at it. "You had a lawyer draw this up?"

"Freaking out the lawyers is the whole point of having money, I think. And buying my dad plane tickets and a house."

Pete looked up at him, his fingers tightening on the pen. It made no fucking sense that this guy had a hard time getting dates, or that he believed he was awkward, or... most of the things he said about himself, actually. Pete was going to have to keep an eye out for clues. "I don't think I get you at all, dude."

"I hear that a lot." Gabe shrugged and nodded at the papers. "Sign?"

Pete's eyes drifted down Gabe's body, stopping at the definite bulge at the crotch of his jeans. Shit. Well. Why not?


End file.
